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“I don’t play vinyl because it reminds me of you.”
“Two decades ago. Before,” Meche made a little circular motion with the fork, “the whole stabbing in the back thingy.”
You don’t get to rewind your life like a tape and splice it back together, pretending it never knotted and tore, when it did and you know it did.
“One day, if you’re not careful, all your bullshit is going to bite you in the ass,” he whispered.
He might even have pointed out that they shared a genetic code and thus a proclivity to make really bad choices; to fuck people they shouldn’t fuck, and fuck themselves into a corner.
She remembered being a teenager, being near Sebastian, very clearly. It had been thrilling. Every single morning, walking at his side to school, their shoes dipping into puddles, their easy smiles and the easier banter. Oh, she had been so in love with him and not in the ‘sappy’ way. Not the crush a teenager has for a handsome boy, like Constantino. She loved him absolutely and if she never kissed him then—really kissed him, not whatever microsecond of a kiss they had shared—never made him her lover, it was because they had already touched more deeply than any youthful caress.
“‘A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,’” he read. “Someone finally read Shakespeare.” Just so I could come back at you when you called me illiterate, she thought and that sounded too much like admitting he’d had some huge influence on her life. Which was not the case. Not really.
LOVE DIES IN different ways. For most, it is a slow, agonizing death. Meche, however, cut her love the same way the executioner might chop a head: with a single, accurate swing.
“I’d appreciate the speech, thank you.” “I’m not giving you a speech,” she said. “It’s not one of your books.”
